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Poem

From the Summer of Love this snake slithers
Exposes its fangs from a sleeve of gold
Shakes the Venice beaches to the apocalypse of Viet Nam
A song
A poem
Black leather pants wrapped around Apollo

The End
A worldwide revolution lasting 11 minutes 42 seconds

How many tens of millions of people have had their lives changed
For so many decades
By a trance in front of that candle?

When all the tune was ever meant to be
Was a sad brief break up song jotted down beautifully
By a heart sick boy
Who sat homeless on the shore of the Pacific
Beneath a wharf
Smoking grass

Ode to his lost girl Mary Werbelow

I wonder if his later infamous wife Pam
Ever knew all those famous love songs
Engorged by her man’s baritone voice
And lullabied across the first three albums

Were written for Mary?

Perhaps she did
Which may explain her private psychotic insecurity
And his clown-like indifference
And their mutual moonlight drive into madness

I realize this is possibly spoiling yours and my
Image
Of what we’ve loved imagining for all this time

But aren’t we all shadows behind a flame?
Ok
His
A blaze
While most of us just slowly burn

But revolution is a great lie of light
Fills its own crystal sail
Blinds everything in its sight

Born mainly from a young man’s pain
And his scratch on flint of a pen
Scorching a piece of paper
Over a romance that should have ruled a lifetime
But was lost

And he knew it

Let it burn

Became something more
Or someplace less

Nonetheless
Ashes.

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